


one by one they all just

by kiden



Category: Community (TV)
Genre: F/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-14
Updated: 2020-06-14
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:28:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24709117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kiden/pseuds/kiden
Summary: “Jeff texted her, apropos of nothing, and Britta had been surprised it wasn’t a voicemail. It made her think he hadn’t been drinking. And the idea he could say something so honest, so vulnerable, to her, without half a bottle of whisky in him was terrifying.”
Relationships: Britta Perry/Jeff Winger
Comments: 18
Kudos: 75





	one by one they all just

There are things Britta will miss about New York. The clear, warm nights on the roof of her apartment building and the city’s skyline glittering across the East River. The corner stores, cramped and dusty, and cats always curled up on the counters. She’ll miss the summers, and the way Autumn comes quickly and changes the air, crisp and welcoming and making her think of pencil shavings and fresh, unused spiral notebooks. And how she can disappear into it. How New York can make her feel like nobody at all. 

It’s a long drive to Colorado. She could’ve bought a plane ticket - he’d offered - but Britta can’t accept it and, anyway, the trip will be good for her. A week on the road should be enough to figure out what the hell she’s going to say to him once she gets there. 

But what winds up happening is she doesn’t think about any of that. 

All Britta thinks about during those long hours in her shitty, barely functioning car - no air conditioner, no radio, no respite from her own terrible, non-stop brain - is the smell of Jeff’s cologne. How good his dumb, stupid, expensive shampoo made her hair feel. The nights she’d stay, or he would stay, and how they’d press against each other in bed, her tucked up against his chest, the nook of him created by his arms around her, and how warm it felt to be so close to him. 

It’s the time, she figures, that makes all the bad things not so bad anymore. Britta can barely remember them, which makes her wonder if they were really so bad at all. Had they really hurt each other the way she thought they did? She’s not so sure now. The times that stand out, bright, bright moments at the forefront of her memory, are times they’d made each other laugh. Fleeting seconds of elbowing each other playfully, a knowing look cast across the table, the way they could fall in step beside one another like they were always, always supposed to be walking together. 

Jeff texted her, apropos of nothing, and Britta had been surprised it wasn’t a voicemail. It made her think he  _ hadn’t been drinking _ . And the idea he could say something so honest, so vulnerable, to  _ her,  _ without half a bottle of whisky in him was terrifying. 

She pulls over at the Colorado border to read the message again. 

They’ve spoken on the phone a half-dozen times since the text. They’ve sent a hundred more texts in-between. But it’s still there. Just a little ways up. 

_ Annie is attractive and young and she wanted me. And it was safer to convince myself I wanted something I couldn’t have. That I knew would never work. That, if I’m being honest, I never wanted to work. _

_ I kept trying to marry you, Britta. And you kept trying to marry me. And that was the scary thing, not how I felt about Annie. It terrified me, and terrifies me still, how easily you fit into my life. How badly I want you there.  _

_ I thought you should know. You were never second place. You were the only one. And I don’t want to run from what we can be together anymore.  _

_ If you ever find your way back, just know you have a place to come home to. If you want it.  _

A patented Jeff Winger Speech, sent through iMessage. And fuck, she does. She wants. Wants to have a favorite brand of olive oil and fight with him about dinner every night and the way he always lets the air conditioner run even when nobody’s home. She wants to go to bed with him every night and wake up next to him in the morning, when he looks stupid from being asleep, his hair messed up and face squished from his overpriced pillows. Britta wants to love Jeff, with her entire heart, and trust that he will always love her, too. She wants the rest of her life to be with him.

Which is absolutely disgusting, and she hates it, and hates him for making her feel this way. For making it so goddamn easy to imagine that all of that is possible. If she thinks about it for more than a minute, Britta can remember the way his eyes felt on her, when he’d look, when she’d pretend not to notice. 

By the time she gets to his apartment, Britta’s nerves are shot. Every inch of her feels frayed and her hand trembles when she throws the car into park. Twenty minutes later, when she finally gathers the courage to get out of her fucking car, she’s shaking so bad it takes a full minute to grab the handle. 

What if he sees her and changes his mind. What if it was a joke - some kind of elaborate, awful joke. What if her  _ parents _ are there, and it’s a trap, and they’re just trying to get her to move back home so they can smother her to death with their 30-years-of-neglect guilt. 

It takes Britta another ten minutes just to walk around the block. She should have parked across town. She should have walked here from New York. 

Jeff is sitting on the steps outside his building. 

He’s holding a makeshift bouquet of flowers, clearly plucked from the windowsill garden from the house across the street. 

“How did you know I was here?” 

“I didn’t,” Jeff says, a small smile at the corner of his mouth threatening his carefully crafted cool. “I’ve been sitting here for a week.” 

“Sure,” Britta says. She kicks the heel of her boot against the sidewalk. 

He looks good. Older, even though it’s only been two years. Jeff has grown a beard. The crows feet around his eyes are deeper. He looks beautiful. Britta hates him. 

“You cut your hair,” Jeff says. 

“Is this a mistake?” she blurts, and then takes a step back from the blunt force of her stupid mouth. “This is a mistake. I shouldn’t have -” 

Jeff stands up. He’s holding the flowers, still, but not making any move to give them to her. They’re just there, held tightly in his hand. Some of the petals are coming loose and falling around his feet. 

“No it’s not, Girl from Spanish, and you know it. Come upstairs.” 

“Jeff -” 

“Britta.”

She laughs. A big, hearty laugh that pops out of her without reason. It’s so dumb, it doesn’t make any sense at all, but when she leaps into his arms, Jeff catches her. 

God, she’s going to fucking  _ marry  _ the shit out of him. Soon probably. Sooner than they should. It’s going to be messy and gross and annoying, the whole entire time.

It’s definitely a joke, but at least they’re going to laugh. A lot.


End file.
